


exercise of trust

by helloearthlings



Series: The Heart is Hard to Translate [4]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, TAZ Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloearthlings/pseuds/helloearthlings
Summary: “Maybe that’s what’s got Wright all in a tizzy over you. I swear to God he hasn’t shut up aboutSammy thisandSammy thatin two fucking weeks. It’s enough to make me sick,” Herschel says. “Then again, Arnold isn’t much better. They keep telling me that I shouldn’t put you through the wringer until you’refeeling better.”It’s very clear to Sammy what Herschel’s general disposition is on the subject offeeling better.
Relationships: Ben Arnold & Sammy Stevens, Sammy Stevens/Jack Wright
Series: The Heart is Hard to Translate [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575949
Comments: 17
Kudos: 122





	exercise of trust

Sammy has never been an early riser, but he falls into a routine of waking up at dawn.

It’s not entirely accidental, though he certainly sleeps fitfully in his new room. Sammy has always slept on his stomach, but the slightest turn in his sleep can send a spasm of pain through his back regardless. And the light starts streaming through his double windows at just past six in the morning.

It’s not so bad. Sammy likes watching the sun peak out from the other side of the mountain. He’s never lived in the mountains before – his home on Sylvain could only be described as swampy.

Still, he needs to do something alone each morning before the rest of Amnesty awakens. Holding his breath as he climbs down the rickety staircase so as not to make any extra noise, he slips outside into the cool summer morning to sit in the springs.

Sammy wouldn’t do it at all if it weren’t absolutely necessary, but there is no Heart of Sylvain here on Earth. The springs, according to Jack, should keep him just as replenished. Jack gave him some clothes specifically for swimming – because humans think of _everything –_ but Sammy doesn’t want to dip in the springs like the others at the lodge do, with everyone watching.

Reagan, a tall ginger woman most of the time, spends half the day lounging in the springs in her otter form. Dwayne, who lives in the room across from Sammy’s, has a collection of something called _floaties_ that require air to be blown into them. Doyle, who has hair twice as long as Sammy’s, apparently installed the diving board on the opposite side of the springs from the lodge.

Sammy doesn’t want to spend time in the water, no matter how necessary it is. Maybe it’s the necessity of it that bothers him – even though he looks human, he’ll always have the needs of a Sylvan.

And so, he slips into the water at half past six in the morning, while the rest of the lodge isn’t stirring yet. It’s the only time that Sammy spends alone anymore, and he supposes he should enjoy the springs just for that – but he finds himself missing the companionable banter of Jack and Ben, or even the other residents of Amnesty that Sammy’s casually gotten to know over the past couple weeks.

This morning, though, a crash from the back door to the lodge makes Sammy jump half a foot in the air, the water around him splashing with the impact.

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, someone’s already out here this early, what the fuck are they – oh. New guy. Been wonderin’ when I’d see your ugly mug.”

Sammy turns at the unfamiliar voice to find two old human – well, human-looking – men standing in the doorway, each carrying an identical long rod. The taller of the two glares over at Sammy, taking a few short steps to reach the springs. He’s got hard blue eyes and thin glasses, and his hair is white underneath a flat brown straw hat.

“You’re…. Herschel?” Sammy guesses. The other Amnesty residents have mostly mentioned Herschel through jokes, so Sammy’s not quite sure what to make of him. Apparently, he and his best friend Cecil – who must be the other old man, looking mostly identical to Herschel while several inches shorter and clean-shaven instead of a grey-white mustache – are training for something called _the bass tournament,_ so they haven’t been around the lodge much.

Sammy does not know what a _bass_ is. He wishes he’d thought to ask.

“Those fuckers inside have been tellin’ stories about me, eh?” Herschel scoffs, rolling his eyes. He props an arm on the pole he’s holding, his gaze critical. Sammy shrinks, glad he’s still wearing the t-shirt Jack gave him so at least his scars aren’t visible. “Well, you don’t look like much. Certainly not worth all this fucking attention.”

“Hersch!” Cecil calls from the doorway, and Sammy’s a bit relieved to see him mouth _sorry_ behind Herschel’s back. “C’mon, we gotta get our best fishin’ spot!”

“Wait for two fucking seconds, it wouldn’t kill you to learn some patience,” Herschel barks back at Cecil before his gaze returns to Sammy. “You’re a banshee, that right? But you’ve got wings or something fuckin’ crazy?”

Sammy nods, not sure what else to do. Herschel sighs pointedly. “Back in my day, the Sylvan government would’ve eaten you the fuck alive.”

“Um,” Sammy says, eloquent as ever.

“Maybe that’s what’s got Wright all in a tizzy over you. I swear to God he hasn’t shut up about _Sammy this_ and _Sammy that_ in two fucking weeks. It’s enough to make me sick,” Herschel says. “Then again, Arnold isn’t much better. They keep telling me that I shouldn’t put you through the wringer until you’re _feeling better_.”

It’s very clear to Sammy what Herschel’s general disposition is on the subject of _feeling better._

“Well, I got news for you – you’re not special, and ain’t gonna treat you with kid gloves,” Herschel says, and surprisingly, his gaze softens incrementally. “You’ve been through some shit, but now you’re here. You’ve got those two boys fawning over your every hair flip. Which, by the way, is an affront to goddamn Mother Nature herself. Do you know what a hippie is yet?”

Sammy wordlessly shakes his head.

“Hersch, it’s what’s in _style_ ,” Cecil approaches the springs, and at least he’s smiling. And trying to tug Herschel away, so that’s a good thing. “We’ve gotta _go._ It’s good meeting you, uh…Ben’s friend.”

Herschel rolls his eyes again, though this time it seems to be at Cecil instead of Sammy, and he might be trying to get Sammy in on the joke.

It’s gone as quick as it’s there, though, because Herschel’s expression immediately turns to disgruntled displeasure once more, which Sammy is beginning to think is his natural state.

“You tell Arnold that I want the cleaning service in my room by noon today, and makes sure they don’t steal any of my goddamn lures this time,” Herschel says. “And you tell Wright that if he doesn’t call Grisham, I _will._ Gate be damned, you got that?”

Again, Sammy nods. Nodding, he thinks, is the only way to get out of this conversation unscathed.

“We’re going to have a long lecture about hair care when I get back,” Herschel even manages to make _that_ sound threatening. “And take your goddamn charm of when you’re in the springs. No need to look human this early in the morning if you’re not entering civil society. C’mon, Cecil.”

“Wait, Hersch – was he Ben’s friend or Jack’s friend?”

“I don’t know. Neither of them is capable of holding a conversation about anything other than long-haired and lanky. Wright’s probably –”

They disappear from Sammy’s eyeline and earshot before he can hear whatever they were going to say about Jack.

Sammy sighs, deflating, energy suddenly zapped away from that encounter. Jack told him awhile ago that Herschel meant very well but was an acquired taste who made a terrible first impression. Sammy supposes he was right enough.

He’s not overly offended by anything Herschel said – just more than a little exhausted. It must take work to be that ornery.

Sammy stares down at his leather bracelet, and it takes him a few minutes before he realizes that those are Herschel’s words that stuck the most. He knows he should take it off just to check and see if his wings are damaged beyond repair, but –

Sammy can see his reflection in the water. The dark brown eyes with so much depth, the way his hair spools on top of his head with the ponytail holder that Ben got him, that Ben will probably try to fix as soon as Sammy sees him. His skin, still pale but with no streaks of red. No blood in his eyes, no blood in his mouth.

Sammy hugs his knees to his chest, breathing deeply. He’ll have to check eventually, but for now he’s going to keep his bracelet looped around his wrist, where it belongs.

* * *

Sammy takes a shower after his dip in the springs, and after staring at his closet for ten minutes, pulls Jack’s sweatshirt on.

By the time he gets back downstairs, the common room the lodge is coming slowly to life. Katie has her sketchbook in the corner, and she waves cheerily over at Sammy when he passes. Debbie plays the piano, and she doesn’t wave. Even Tim is up, though curled on the couch in his pajamas with a book. He grins at Sammy, and gestures toward the kitchen.

Sammy steps through the double doors to find Mary bent over the stovetop, muttering under her breath something that sounds vaguely obscene.

“Morning, Mary.”

“I’m not making you breakfast,” Mary says, a bit snappier than her usual, though her eyes soften when they meet Sammy’s own. “Jack will if you want to go wake him, though. He’s a bigger pushover than me.”

“I don’t want to wake him,” Sammy says quickly. He’s already interrupted Jack’s sleep enough since he got to Amnesty, there’s no need for a rude wake up call this morning. “I just – I was wondering – um, he usually makes me smoothies, but I don’t know _how_. If you could just show me the beginning, then I could figure it out…”

Mary makes a noise at him that Sammy can only describe as motherly, before she takes his hand and pulls him across the kitchen to an odd contraption that sits upright on the counter.

“Ain’t you the sweetest,” Mary squeezes Sammy around the shoulders. “This is a _blender_. Jack has weird recipes, but we can just put some fruit and water in, okay? That’s the kind of smoothie I make.”

She laughs, and Sammy can’t help but laugh with her. Mary’s about the nicest Sylvan he’s ever known, and she’s been the one who to actually sit down and give him an important Earth vocabulary lesson. Thanks to her, Sammy knows all of the slang now, though he thinks maybe Mary taught some to him wrong if the way Jack couldn’t stop giggling when Sammy said _cowabunga_ is anything to go by.

“Ben’s not allowed anywhere near the blender, by the way,” Mary says, a sparkle in her eye.

“What _is_ Ben allowed near?”

“In the kitchen? The refrigerator.”

They both laugh, and Mary pulls out bananas and strawberries for them to add to the blender. She’s rummaging in the fridge for any other stray ingredients when Ben suddenly appears at Sammy’s elbow.

“Hey, you scared me,” Sammy doesn’t quite jump, especially because the first thing Ben does is lock Sammy in a quick hug, and then reach up to tighten the ponytail in his hair.

“Morning,” Ben says, chipper as ever. “Tim said you were talking about me. Did you say anything mean?”

“Just that you can’t touch the blender,” Mary says pointedly and Ben pouts.

“I’m not sixteen anymore! I can touch things! …That came out wrong.”

Sammy chuckles while Mary leans in to give Ben a good morning hug, too.

“Oh, honey, you’ll always be sixteen to me,” Mary kisses the top of his head., which makes Ben go lax and smiley. “Now what’s on the schedule for today?”

“Herschel,” Sammy inserts in before Ben can open his mouth. “He wants the cleaning service before noon and – something about lures? And I’m supposed to tell Jack to call somebody. Grisham?”

“Oh, you had to meet big old bear?” Mary winces. “Sorry, hon, I was supposed to run interference.”

“He’s a bear?” Sammy looks up, a bit alarmed. He didn’t look nearly large enough to have bear blood in him.

“No,” Ben corrects with a smile a bit too big. “He’s…well, he’s Bigfoot. The _real_ Bigfoot. Which might not mean much to you –”

“I mean, sasquatches aren’t rare in Sylvain,” Sammy says, but Mary just shakes her head.

“Bigfoot means a lot to Benny,” Mary ruffles his hair. “And now Bigfoot is one of his best friends.”

“ _Best friends_?” Ben laughs incredulously. “You should tell Herschel. He’d get a real hoot out of that.”

Mary shakes her head fondly, rolling her eyes at Sammy over Ben’s head where he can’t see. Sammy grins back. One easy thing to pick up on about the dynamics at Amnesty Lodge was that Ben was there to be teased, as much as possible.

Sammy could definitely add to that conversation.

Some conversations are a little harder – anything about Sylvain, Sammy wants to duck out of the room as fast as possible. And he still doesn’t quite understand any of the internal politics of the town of Kepler. He’s learned how to play a lot of board games, though.

Jack and Ben always try to include him in the group conversations, though, even though Sammy and large groups of people have never gotten along. It’s worth it to sit next to the fire in the evenings though, or out in the garden.

Jack is in charge of the garden, but he’s not very good at being in charge of the garden. Sammy is helping him. Many of their conversations are about plants. Sammy enjoys those conversations a lot, just because it’s nice to listen to Jack talk.

“– and I thought Sammy could help me with groceries! Just so I could show him around town.”

“Groceries?” Sammy tunes back into the conversation when he hears his name. Ben is grinning widely, which makes Sammy a little nervous, but he knows Ben has the best of intentions.

“Don’t worry,” Ben leans into Sammy’s side, grinning up at him. “You’ll love groceries.”

* * *

 _Groceries,_ Sammy learns, is code for _lots and lots of food._

Ben explains how he does a lodge-wide grocery run once a week, which mainly involves him avoiding the people trying to make requests for their favorite items. With the notable exception of Herschel, who will string Ben up by the ceiling if he doesn’t get his Honey Nut Cheerios.

The grocery store is in the middle of Kepler, and Sammy stays close to Ben’s side at the store, though Ben continually tells him that he should go look around and put anything he wants in the cart. Despite the fact that Ben claims to be objective in his picks for the lodge, he’s clearly taking all of the residents into account, since he keeps muttering about everyone’s various tastes.

“Jack used to be in charge of grocery runs,” Ben says as unloads various kinds of fruit into the cart. He drops two loaves that Sammy catches before they hit the floor. “I was only recently reinstated because he hadn’t forgiven me for the Fruit Roll Up Incident.”

“What’s a fruit roll up?”

“If you don’t know, you can’t judge me,” Ben bumps their hips together, and Sammy doesn’t feel left out of not knowing for a change, because it’s like they’re both in on the joke. “Suffice to say that Jack had a long lecture for me about _being twenty-three_ and _knowing better.”_

“Jack doesn’t seem like the lecturing type,” Sammy says, and Ben scoffs.

“He isn’t, he’s a softie and a pushover with literally everyone else,” Ben says. “He makes special exception for me for _some reason_ that probably has to do with promising my mother that he would take good care of me or something sappy like that. You’d never lecture me, would you, Sammy?”

Ben’s eyes practically grow in size as he blinks up at Sammy, and Sammy takes Mary’s lead and ruffles Ben’s hair. It makes Ben light up.

“Only if you deserve it,” Sammy says and Ben groans.

“A Jack-like answer if there ever was one,” Ben hits Sammy’s wrist lightly. “C’mon, tell me which cereals look best to you and we’ll get your favorites. And Honey Nut Cheerios.”

Sammy ends up picking Wheaties and Frosted Flakes, and Ben insists on three boxes of Lucky Charms. Sammy gets the feeling that Jack may not approve of this choice, but he knows Ben can convince anyone of anything.

“Does anyone cook? Like, for the group?” Sammy asks as they wander through the _bread_ aisle where Ben grabs eight different kinds of loaves, because Mary likes wheat, but Reagan likes white, and Cecil will only eat rye.

Ben shakes his head with a snort. “You’d think there would be one decent cook among us, but no. Mary’s good but refuses on principle, unless it’s a holiday. Ron sometimes cooks when he comes by. Jack and Tim try, but it’s never great. _I_ am not allowed.”

Ben scowls, but Sammy can tell he’s not serious since his eyes remain light. He’s about to say something about how he’s sure the others aren’t giving Ben enough credit, though secretly he probably agrees that Ben’s enthusiasm might not translate well to kitchen utensils, when a voice interrupts them from down the aisle.

“Naturally, you ain’t allowed, Benny – we can’t have Amnesty burning down overnight because you forget to turn off the stovetop again!”

“That was _one_ time!”

Sammy turns at the voice, but Ben’s already way ahead of him. Ben springs away from the cart full of various foodstuffs and practically leaps at the tall man at the end of the aisle. Sammy only sees about half of the guy’s face before Ben obscures it with his massive Ben Arnold hug, but Sammy still catches a glimpse of a human man with long, broad features, and reddish hair underneath a broad hat.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming for groceries!” Ben lets go of the man, turning back to Sammy with a blinding grin. The other man tips his hat to Sammy, who steps toward him tentatively. He’s got blue eyes that add a kind sparkle to his expression. “Sammy, this is Troy – I’ve been telling him to come by and meet you for _ages_.”

Oh, so this is one of the Pine Guard members. His voice does seem a bit familiar. Sammy thinks about pulling back, but Troy’s pumping his hand enthusiastically before he can even try.

“I’ve been outta town, little buddy,” Troy says before turning back to Sammy. “I’ve been anxious to meet you, Sammy. Seems like Ben’s taken a real liking to you!”

“Jack took a liking first,” Ben says, and Sammy can feel his face redden in embarrassment. “I just followed his lead. You _have_ come to the lodge for dinner tonight, Troy.”

“Why do you think I came for groceries?” Troy chuckles. He seems just as genial and soft-hearted as Ben claimed in the stories that he told Sammy about the Pine Guard. “I thought I’d whip up a Krieghauser family specials. The missus is still with her folks, and I gotta hankerin’ to make my famous chili.”

“We’ll get the ingredients now!” Ben beams. Apparently, _chili_ is a very good thing. “I’ll go get the beans!”

Ben scurries out of the aisle, but Sammy can tell by ear just where Ben is in the store. Even his footsteps are distinctive.

Troy, with twinkling eyes, turns back to Sammy. “Oh, it’s so good to finally meet you, especially after that awful night out in the woods. How you feelin’, buddy? Anything I can do to help?”

“I’m alright,” Sammy says, and Troy pats his shoulder gently. His smile doesn’t change. “Jack’s taken really good care of me. And – and of course, Ben and Mary have, too.”

“Jack’s a good egg,” Troy nods in understanding. “We’re all bleeding hearts in the Pine Guard, but Jack’s one-of-a-kind, ain’t he?”

“For sure,” Sammy says, softer than he intends.

A patter of footsteps in quick succession brings Ben back to poking his head into their aisle. “Troy, will you make garlic bread with the chili? Pretty please? I would make it myself but I’m –”

“Not allowed,” Sammy and Troy fill in at the same time, and when Sammy glances over at Troy he sees that their grins match.

* * *

Both Ben’s and Troy’s cars are filled to the brim with groceries when they arrive back at Amnesty. Sammy doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much food at once in his life. Sylvain had markets, of course, but nothing so contained as a grocery store, and buying in stock wasn’t really a part of the culture where Sammy lived.

The store had carts to help haul everything inside the vehicles, and Ben fussed a bit at Sammy to not carry too much because of his back. Troy took about six bags at a time, though, so they made pretty quick work of it.

There are no carts to help when they pull up outside of Amnesty, but the screen door around back opens as soon as Ben turns the car off. Sammy can’t help but start to smile when Jack waves at him through the window. Sammy immediately unbuckles his seatbelt, only not succeeding once, to get out of the car.

“Hey!” Jack rushes over and, to Sammy’s surprise, he throws an arm around his shoulder to hug him. “I missed you today.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you I was going with –” Sammy starts, hoping to explain that he’d looked around a bit for Jack that morning before they left but didn’t want to wake him up if he was still sleeping. Jack cuts him off before he can finish, though.

“You don’t have to check in with me,” Jack says, voice soft but firm. He hooks his chin on top of Sammy’s head for just a second. Sammy leans in, wishing that Jack would do that all the time. “I just missed you, that’s all.”

“Jack! Are you just gonna be cute, or are you gonna help with the bags?”

Sammy jumps – he’d somehow forgotten that both Ben and Troy were there. Ben doesn’t actually seem to mind if his eye roll is anything to go by, but he stands and stares expectantly from the trunk of his car. Troy is already unloading his own, grinning cheerily over at Jack in greeting. 

“Troy is blessing us with chili tonight, Jack! _Chili_!”

Jack squeezes Sammy’s shoulder one more time before letting go. “Troy, you’re a god among men.”

Troy blushes, eight bags of groceries balanced precariously in his arms. “Aw, shucks.”

* * *

Sammy hovers in the kitchen while Troy makes his chili, both because he wants to get to know Troy, and because he wants to see what the big deal about _chili_ is.

It smells great, Sammy has to give him that. Troy also insists that Sammy be his taste-tester – usually a job reserved for Ben, who pouts at being replaced but sits with Sammy at the kitchen stools all the same – and gives him several tips on how to make a pot of chili turn out just right.

Word travels fast through Amnesty that Troy’s making his apparently lodge-famous chili dinner, and before long, more than a dozen Sylvans gather in the common room as Troy dishes the reddish-brown dish into round bowls, with small plates specifically for garlic bread.

Ben looks frighteningly pleased with his garlic bread and takes six pieces.

“All that can’t be good for you,” Sammy tells him, and Jack, from across the table, rolls his eyes.

“I’ve spent half a decade telling him that,” Jack says. “Someday his metabolism is going to slow down and then he’ll be sorry.”

“Until that day!” Ben raises one piece of his bread up above his head like a toast, before stuffing it in his mouth all at once.

“So, Sammy,” Troy says from Sammy’s other side. Sammy’s seat is cloistered in between the three other men, with Mary and Tim next to them quietly conversing with one another. They’re together romantically, Sammy knows. Reagan and Katie are next down the line, then Doyle, but after that it’s too far away to have a conversation. Sammy doesn’t know the other Sylvans very well anyway. “Do you have a last name yet?”

“Um,” Sammy says, a little confused, because Troy should probably know that surnames are much more prevalent on Earth than in Sylvain. Thankfully, Jack answers, with a quick sympathetic look at Sammy.

“He means, have I finished up getting you the requisite paperwork yet to give you a human ID,” Jack explains. “And no, Ron’s been swamped with business lately and we haven’t had time to meet up with our usual contact for that.”

“I get a human ID?” Sammy says, a little dumbfounded. For some reason, his heart starts beating faster and the room gets warm around him. He takes another bite of chili, but it doesn’t help.

“Safety precaution,” Jack says quickly. “In case anyone comes snooping around Amnesty. You shouldn’t need to use it – well, unless you want to.”

Jack’s face softens, and Sammy feels his leg brush against his under the table. He hopes it was on purpose.

“We should pick a last name for you now,” Ben says, pointing his fork in Sammy’s direction. “Something common. Anderson?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack raises his eyebrows. Sammy laughs, thankful for the intervention. He didn’t much like that suggestion, anyway.

“We don’t have a Smith yet,” Troy suggests, but Ben’s the one to shake his head this time.

“Smith is so common it loops back around to being suspicious,” Ben says. “Young? Or Arnold! You could be my cousin!”

Ben grins so brilliantly that Sammy almost agrees on the spot, but Jack snorts in laughter. “That’ll be _way_ too complicated to explain later. Everyone in town already knows Betty.”

Ben sticks his tongue out at Jack. “You’re ruining my fun.”

“How about something…. alliterative,” Jack says with a kind of decisiveness. “Everyone loves alliteration.”

“If you’re a high school English teacher, maybe,” Ben reaches across the table to shove at Jack, who shoves right back. “That’s your retirement gig, your final form.”

“No, Jack’s right,” Troy says thoughtfully, setting down his fork. He ignores Jack and Ben’s squabbling slaps and looks into the middle distance. “Hmm. Sanders…. Simmons…. Stevens….”

“I like that last one,” Sammy says, and not just because Jack has pulled Ben into a headlock now. “Stevens.”

“Sammy Stevens,” Ben says, squirming away from Jack. “I like it, too.”

Sammy takes a long drink of water, feeling extra warm with three beaming smiles directed entirely at him, but the warmth isn’t so bad.

“Oh, that’s a good name,” Mary’s eyes flicker over to them, cutting off whatever conversation she was having with Tim. “We’re the Jensens, which is all well and good, but I like Stevens better.”

“I picked the name,” Tim says, putting an arm around Mary, who leans in with an eye roll. “She was the one who put up with it when we got married.”

Sammy almost asks something about how marriage on Earth would work between two Sylvans, but Katie pipes up from Troy’s other side before he can continue.

“We should figure out how old Sammy is in human years, too,” she says, her slight face wrinkling in a quick laugh. “I can tell you, it was right depressing to go from sixteen to twenty-five in a blink when I came here!”

There are a few tinkling laughs down the table, Katie clearly having caught others’ attention. The warmth in Sammy’s chest quickly turns from pleasant to constricting, and he ducks his head down. He wishes, for the first time in a while, that he still had wings to hide behind.

“Sammy?” Jack says hesitantly, and he can feel Ben’s small hand on his elbow. “You okay?”

“Um, that might be hard to do,” Sammy clears his throat, purposefully not making eye contact with anyone. He’s all too aware that the din of the table has hushed around him, and the other Sylvans’ attention is directed right at him. “Seeing as how I don’t know how old I am in Sylvan years, even.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and Sammy hears a voice that he thinks is Dwayne, but might be Pete or one of the other Sylvans he’s only exchanged names with say with a little derision, “How the hell does anyone not –”

Someone starts to chuckle, and Sammy looks up without meaning to.

Herschel, seemingly out of nowhere, stands at the head of the table, his pole in hand. He rolls his eyes so hard that it must hurt. 

He must be just back in from his expedition if the stench of dead fish radiating from the bag that he’s holding is anything to by. 

“Herschel, you should’ve told us you’d be back in time for dinner,” one of the other Sylvans – Maggie? – starts to say, but Herschel shushes them before they can say another word.

“Oh, please, you judgmental little shits. I forgot my age fucking _years_ ago and you wouldn’t test me on it,” Herschel says before turning to, terrifyingly, make eye contact with Sammy. “You’re ahead of the game as far as I’m concerned, son. Don’t give a good goddamn, that’s my advice. You’re a grown adult no matter what, even if you are wearing Wright’s hand-me-downs.”

Sammy flushes, pointedly not making eye contact with Jack. He knew he should’ve stopped wearing Jack’s clothes or it would catch up to him.

“Krieghauser,” Herschel turns his attention to Troy, raising a bushy eyebrow. His tone is more than a little derisive. “I see you’ve made yet another mediocre contribution to the dinner table. Cecil and I will be frying _fresh fish_ for tomorrow. Six o’clock sharp if you want it hot. Thank us later.”

Herschel stalks past the dinner table, Cecil appearing at his heels. He must’ve been standing in the doorway, but Herschel’s presence was so intimidating that Sammy hadn’t noticed him. 

“Wow,” Mary raises an eyebrow after a moment of silence. “Looks like you got the old man’s stamp of approval. That doesn’t happen quickly like that too often.”

“That was his approval?” Sammy asks, and scattered murmurs of assent ring through the room. He’s relieved that Herschel interrupted the moment, but he’s equally as embarrassed and boggled by it at the same time. “I met him this morning and it seemed like he _hated_ me.”

“Herschel doesn’t hate anyone,” Jack says, a wry smile on his face. His brown eyes are so soft on Sammy’s – at least Jack isn’t judging him, even if the other Sylvans are. “He likes us all – he just doesn’t show it much.”

“He’s right, though,” Ben says quickly, his hand still on Sammy’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll just – pick an age for you. Can’t be too hard.”

“If you’re older or younger than me, it can’t be by much,” Jack says, and his foot brushes against Sammy’s under the table again as he smiles. That _had_ to have been on purpose. “We’ll just say you’re thirty-one. We can share my birthday, even.”

“You, Lily, and Sammy?” Ben laughs, and for some reason, the brightness in Jack’s face dims and even though he’s still smiling, it looks much more fixed.

Troy clears his throat meaningfully, and Sammy knows that he shouldn’t ask who Lily is, though it’s clear that they’re someone who matters.

Ben mutters apologies to Jack, who runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t look back over at Sammy again.

“I think we should have a toast,” Troy says. “To the newest member of our little community – Sammy Stevens.”

“I’ve never understood why humans insist on calling this a toast – that’s bread – but hear hear, nonetheless!” Tim laughs, lifting his glass up, and Mary follows suit. Soon, the rest of the table does, too. Ben makes a whooping noise.

Jack is the last to raise his glass, but his smile seems genuine again, and he gestures for Sammy to do the same.

“We clink,” Jack explains, and hits his glass against Sammy’s. The rest of the room erupts in a series of clinking noises as well as they knock glasses together. Sammy wonders why this is a good idea, since it seems like it will just lead to spilled drinks.

“Earth is strange,” Sammy tells him. Jack just laughs.

* * *

Sammy excuses himself earlier than most that night. He’d played backgammon with Tim and Ben, and Katie had joined in, too, but the day had been more than a little exhausting, and the scars on his back itch.

Sammy’s just not used to so many people, so many fluctuating social dynamics. He’s used to spending all of his time alone, with no meaningful relationships to keep steady.

He thinks he’s doing alright, though. Ben hugged him goodnight, and so did Troy and Mary. Jack went to bed even earlier than Sammy, but he’d stopped over at the backgammon table to ask who was winning and fix Sammy’s bun that had been drooping.

Sammy plans on collapsing into his bed, but there’s something there that wasn’t this morning.

Three sweatshirts, two grey and one black, all with the same faded letters as the one Sammy’s wearing right now. He knows they have the names of various sports teams that Jack played on over the years.

Jack must want Sammy to have them.

If Sammy sleeps curled around one of them that night, well, there’s no one who can prove it. 


End file.
